


Hide and Seek

by fictionalaspect



Series: Hide and Seek Verse [1]
Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Established Relationship, M/M, Orgasm Denial, Public Humiliation, Roleplay, SSC, Spanking, dub-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-13
Updated: 2010-05-13
Packaged: 2017-10-09 10:27:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/86279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionalaspect/pseuds/fictionalaspect
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryan's a responsibility and a surprise and sometimes a reality check, which is kind of ironic when Spencer thinks about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hide and Seek

**Author's Note:**

> For several people, all of whom know who they are. This began as a challenge to myself to see if I could write it; the prompt that started this specified "carefully negotiated consent play and aftercare," within the context of an established relationship. Thank you to stephanometra for providing help with the porn, anoneknewmoose and ailleann23 for being a sounding board, and untappedbeauty for smoothing out the (many, many) rough edges.
> 
> Warnings: This fic contains SSC negotiated dub-con. Many uses of the word "Stop" are ignored. It may be VERY TRIGGERY. This fic also contains heavy BSDM themes, bondage, spanking, public humiliation kink, orgasm denial, and use of the word "slut" in an agreed-upon context.

When Ryan asks him the first time, Spencer says "Wait, what?" because he's not awake yet. 

Ryan nods a little, scrubbing a hand over his face and adding two more spoonfuls of sugar to his coffee. They're sitting at the table in Spencer and Brendon's apartment, and Spencer's still not even sure why they're awake. He just knows Ryan had woken up and poked Spencer until he got up, and then Ryan had gone and stood in front of Spencer's coffee machine until Spencer had rolled his eyes and turned it on for him.

"You press the button," Spencer said, like he says every time, and Ryan shrugged and waved a hand like Spencer was talking crazy talk. 

So when Ryan says it, Spencer just nods, and takes another sip, and tucks it away in the back of his mind. He can revisit it when his brain isn't sitting at the bottom of his coffee cup, waiting to be slurped back into his head through the restorative magic of caffeine.

"Let me think about it," Spencer says, and Ryan hums in agreement and kicks at his ankle until Spencer gets up and starts making pancakes.

\--

"Did you do that on purpose?" Spencer says, later, when they're at a restaurant for dinner, someplace fairly nice but not so nice he had to change out of his t-shirt and flipflops. Ryan eyes Brendon's retreating back, headed towards the men's room, and shrugs a little.

"I just thought," Ryan says, and gestures in Brendon's general direction. "I didn't want him to like, walk in on us talking about it."

"Oh, yeah," Spencer says, because he gets that. He totally gets that. It's not that Brendon doesn't know, but there's knowing and then there's _knowing_. Brendon's seen things, heard things, and he's been around for long enough to figure it out, even before he asked Spencer point-blank. 

Spencer had just shrugged and kicked the handcuffs under his bed and tried to explain it in the most non-threatening way possible. He used a lot of words like _consent_ and _mutual_ and _safe_ and left out 99% of the details. He'd left Ryan out of it almost entirely, and Brendon hadn't pushed. He had seemed to understand it wasn't Spencer's secret to tell.

But there's Brendon knowing his friends have a maybe sort-of relationship, and there's Brendon knowing that Spencer and Ryan have conversations about how long Ryan can stay in those handcuffs without his hands going numb, how many times Spencer can spank him before he won't be able to sit down the next day.

"Did you think about it?" Ryan says while he's polishing off the last of the chicken satay and starting in on the fish cakes. Spencer nods and says "I'm still thinking about it," because he is, because he's not sure yet and he wants to give it some time. 

He doesn't think he's opposed to the idea, but.  

There's a pretty big _but_ in Spencer's mind, and Spencer learned long ago that that's the biggest danger: letting both of them jump into something without thinking it through. They've done a lot of damage to each other that way, back when they were young and sharp around the edges and had no fucking clue what they were doing. They'd managed to fuck each other up pretty badly that first time around, and it had taken a long time to get back to where they'd started. When they'd figured out what Ryan needed, and what Spencer could give him, and where the lines were.

"You should try this shit," Ryan says, gesturing to the fish cakes, after Brendon comes back from the bathroom and bemoans the lack of satay. "Seriously, it's awesome." But he slants his eyes at Spencer, and Spencer knows Ryan heard him, knows Ryan is giving him time to make up his mind. Spencer is quietly grateful.

"You ate my fucking appetizer," Brendon says to Ryan, mock-annoyed. He swigs his beer, and while he's distracted Spencer slides his shrimp rolls very slowly and carefully into Brendon's space.

"Oh, hey, shrimp," Brendon says, all traces of annoyance gone, and Ryan snorts into his cosmopolitan.

\--

Spencer wants to say it's been weird since the band broke up, but it hasn't. It's been freeing, almost, now that they don't have the same schedule and they aren't living on top of each other anymore. Ryan's in L.A. and Spencer's up north, and sometimes the distance helps. Now they talk more, and Ryan's getting better at asking for what he wants instead of expecting Spencer to read his mind, like he can open up Ryan's brain and rummage around inside until he finds something interesting. They'd stopped for a little while right after, maybe a month or two, just so Spencer could get his head straight and make sure that whatever else was going on, it wasn't getting dragged into the thing between them. 

He'd been kind of pissed at Ryan, at first. Ryan had been a little distant, and all of Spencer's warning bells had rung out sharp and clear the first time Ryan suggested he come down to L.A. They'd just hung out, instead, between Spencer's tour dates, and they'd slept together maybe twice. Spencer was careful to keep it light, casual. He'd felt the way Ryan had been holding back, and he remembers feeling grateful. It's a little scary sometimes, how Ryan's so used to dropping into where he needs to be for Spencer, for both of them. Spencer had felt better once he'd seen that Ryan wasn't falling into it unintentionally, that he could control how he reacted to Spencer. 

It would be a lie to say Spencer didn't miss it, though, miss the way Ryan looks when he's giving and giving until there's nothing left, until he holds everything up in his hands for Spencer to put back together. Spencer's a lot more aware than he used to be, and now he thinks of it as a gift rather than something Ryan owes him. 

Ryan's a responsibility and a surprise and sometimes a reality check, which is kind of ironic when Spencer thinks about it.

\--

Brendon's usually conspicuously absent on the nights that Ryan and Spencer have plans, and Spencer's never sure if it's by accident or design. Well, usually he isn't. Tonight he's pretty sure it has nothing to do with either him or Ryan, because Sarah's in town and Brendon had informed him earlier in the week that they were staying at a hotel. 

("I am going to have _all the sex_," Brendon had informed him calmly, sipping from a bottle of water in between takes. Spencer had rolled his eyes and told Brendon he's pretty sure it's not going anywhere. Spencer has an utter inability to resist Brendon's stupid charms, which is partially why they're still in a band together. It's been working well for them so far. 

"I wonder if we can fuck in the tub," Brendon mused. "What if I fall down and break something? That might suck."

"Don't fuck in the tub," Spencer said, tightening one of his cymbals and giving it an experimental crash. "Trust me. At least fill it with water first."

"Spencer _Smith_," Brendon said, smirking a little, one eyebrow raised mockingly. "That's _dirty_. Who did you fuck in a tub?" His eyes were wide, delighted, like Spencer was relating something awesome that Bogart did and not a story about Spencer having sex. Who knows, maybe for Brendon it's all the same category. Spencer has never pretended to understand how Brendon's brain works. 

"No one you know," Spencer said, which was a bold-faced lie.) 

"Ready?" Ryan says, after they've come back from dinner and dropped Brendon off at the airport to meet Sarah's flight.  He looks up at Spencer, twisting his head so he can peer up and over the back of the couch. He's still dressed, but his shoes are off and he's scrunching his toes into the tiny spaces between the couch cushions. 

"I need something to drink first," Spencer says, and opens the fridge and stares longingly at the cold beer before grabbing a bottle of water. He chugs half of it in one go and then brings it to the living room and waves it in front of Ryan's face invitingly.

"Oh, hey," Ryan says, reaching up to take it. Spencer watches his throat work as he swallows. Ryan sets the bottle down and wipes the back of his hand over his mouth, and when he looks over at Spencer he straightens his spine, just a little, like he's remembering where his body is. Spencer wants to smile, but he doesn't.

"Ready?" Spencer asks, just to make sure, and Ryan nods and says, "Clementine." 

Spencer stands in front of the couch and taps his shoe on the carpet.

"Kneel down," Spencer says, and Ryan does.

\--

"Stop," Spencer says, firmly, and smacks Ryan's hip, hard enough to sting. Ryan's body is tense and straining under his fingertips, and he's been working his hips in little circles against the couch, even after Spencer told him not to move. 

"Do you want to come?" Spencer says evenly, and digs his fingers into the reddened skin on Ryan's ass, crooking them just a little so Ryan can feel the sting of his nails. He waits for an answer, and he's gratified when Ryan just nods, staying quiet, being good for him. Spencer's pretty sure he's biting into the cushion to stay silent, because Ryan likes to make little noises, whimpers and gasps and sighs, and one of Spencer's favorite things to do is force him to hold them in until Spencer tells him it's okay.

"Then stay still," Spencer says, running his hands over the marks and then pulling his hand back for another swing. He doesn't really like hitting Ryan, so this is a compromise; Spencer only hits him below the waist, and usually only when Ryan's on his lap. He likes the way Ryan looks after, though, his skin marked, hot to the touch. He likes the way Ryan tenses and shakes a little when he's not sure what's coming, the way he forces himself to relax, to take what Spencer's giving him until there's just the rhythm of their breathing and the sound of Spencer's hands on his skin. 

"Twenty-five," Spencer says softly. He's counting for Ryan so Ryan can stay silent, so he can live up to what Spencer's asking of him. Spencer knows Ryan likes the procession of numbers leading higher and higher. He always shifts impatiently when Spencer reaches twenty, even though his ass must be aching and sore. There's a limit, though, and Ryan has to get on a plane tomorrow. He's being so good, holding so still, and Spencer can feel the familiar burn in his stomach that makes him want to push and push and push.

Spencer rakes his nails down the reddened skin of Ryan's ass one more time, thumbing the streaks left behind. Then he lifts Ryan's hips up and shifts himself so Ryan's kneeling, ass in the air, head down.

Spencer says "You can talk," just as he spreads Ryan apart with both hands and licks at him lightly, delicately. Ryan gasps out a sob.

"Please," Ryan says, and his voice is wrecked, shaky.

"Mmm," Spencer says, deliberately disinterested, and he bites at the lower curve of Ryan's ass, where he can still see a hand print slowly fading. 

"Damn it, fuck, _please_, I mean it," Ryan says. His voice cracks on the last syllable, and Spencer smiles against his skin because yes, that, _that_. Now they're getting somewhere.

"Is there something you want?" Spencer says, like he's honestly curious, and traces around Ryan's rim with the flat of his tongue, one hand gripping Ryan's hip to keep him in place, the other holding Ryan open. Right now Ryan's all pink and cream, pale skin and red marks, and god, he's so pretty under Spencer's hands.

"Yes," Ryan grits out, but he stays silent after, and Spencer pulls away when he realizes the game that Ryan's playing. He leans back against the other arm of the couch and pulls his dick out of his jeans, spitting on his hand loudly, obnoxiously. He grunts when he reaches down to fist himself, just watching the line of Ryan's back, the way his arms are starting to tremble from the strain of holding himself up. 

"Fuck you," Ryan bites out. "Fuck you, Spencer, I'm not going to say it, I'm not going to--"

"Hey," Spencer says, reaching out and slapping him on the hip again, harder than the last time, hard enough that Ryan's body jerks a little from the impact. "You're not being very polite," Spencer says, and goes back to jerking himself off, loudly. "Apologize, or I'm not letting you come."

"Fuck, sorry," Ryan says, and Spencer can hear the whine lurking at the edges of his voice, "Sorry, I'm sorry, please Spencer, just, just--"

"If you're really sorry, you'll tell me what you want," Spencer says, and Ryan ducks his head but Spencer knows he's blushing, that his face right now is probably just as hot and red as his ass. Spencer groans a little as his hand slides on his cock, and Ryan breaks, gasping, "Okay, okay, just, fuck, Spencer, fuck me, please, anything, I need to come, I--"

"Shh," Spencer says, soothing, his hands already running over Ryan's skin because he knows just how much it takes for Ryan to say it. It's kind of weird, really, because Ryan doesn't have a problem talking about sex, but apparently talking about it in the abstract and begging Spencer to fuck him are two totally separate things in Ryan's head.

He pushes down on Ryan's hip, and Ryan's already arching back into his touch, his cock hanging heavy and thick between his legs, leaving a sticky smear against his thigh. Once he's laid out on the towel Spencer spread over the couch, Ryan whimpers, his body straining to move, and Spencer presses down on his lower back to keep him in place. 

"You can move, but don't come until I tell you," Spencer says. Then he shifts so he's kneeling between Ryan's legs, so Ryan's spread out underneath him and there's nowhere for Ryan to hide. Spencer bites his lip and rakes his nails down Ryan's ass again, one hand moving over his own dick. "You look so pretty like this," Spencer murmurs, and Ryan's shifting his hips into the couch, like he can't help it, like there's nothing he can do but lie here and wait for Spencer decide what to do with him.

"Please, Spencer, fucking _please_, anything, fuck," Ryan says, and he's actually begging now, begging Spencer for whatever Spencer wants, anything, everything, and Spencer speeds up his strokes and comes all over Ryan's ass. He gasps a little as the head of his cock touches Ryan's skin, sliding through the come dripping down Ryan's crease.

Ryan moans frantically, rutting into the couch, and Spencer has his hands on him before he's even stopped shaking from his own orgasm, one hand sliding in the mess he's created on Ryan's back.

"Just a little longer, Ry," Spencer says, and he can hear how his voice is uneven, shaky. "Just a little longer, c'mon, hold out for me--" He traces his thumb over the tight pucker of Ryan's hole, slick and wet. Ryan jerks once Spencer has his thumb inside him, and Spencer can hear the way Ryan's almost past the point of no return, almost to the point where his body won't respond to his requests. Spencer slides his hand under Ryan's body, slicks his other thumb over the head of Ryan's cock and waits until he can feel Ryan's legs shaking before he whispers "Yes, okay, come on, come for me, it's okay--" and Ryan's entire body sags with relief as he comes.  Spencer's hand is sticky and warm and wet, and he holds Ryan there, just letting him settle, one hand on his back in between his shoulder blades as Ryan comes down.

After a few minutes, Spencer moves to get up, to clean them both up, because they're both pretty sticky and gross. Ryan makes a lazy interrogative noise, like he's too tired for actual words.

"Just stay here," Spencer says, and rubs between Ryan's shoulders again before he heads to the bathroom. He wets a washcloth in the bathroom sink and cleans himself up, then sticks it back under the hot water and grabs a bottle of Advil. Ryan's still lying there when he gets back, face pressed into the couch cushions, but he looks more blissed out than anything else.

Spencer swipes at him and then runs a hand down his side to get him to turn over, avoiding Ryan's hip in case it's still sore. He snickers a little at Ryan's face once he'd flipped over and he's lying on his back, because Ryan looks like he just smoked the biggest joint in the world. He looks like he's so high on endorphins the house could burn down around him and he wouldn't give a shit.

"Mmm," Ryan says, stretching long and luxurious when Spencer wipes the cloth over his stomach. When he's all stretched out, his toes and his fingers hang off both ends of the couch.

Spencer taps at his stomach. "Don't fall the off the couch," he says, reaching for the Advil. Ryan has a habit of forgetting where his center of gravity is, and more than once he's ended up on the floor after stretching out, looking absurdly surprised, as though the floor had risen up to meet him instead of the other way around.

"Won't," Ryan mumbles, and swallows the pills when Spencer hands him three, flailing a hand out for the bottle of water. He finishes it, opens one eye to look at Spencer consideringly, and then chucks it over the back of the couch.

"Dick," Spencer says, but his voice is soft, teasing. "When my dog dies from eating too much plastic, I'm sending Brendon and his inconsolable grief to your house."

"He already eats too much plastic," Ryan mumbles. "Stop buying him those fucking chew toys made in China." He makes grabby hands at Spencer, sort of, an aborted motion that ends with Spencer pulling the throw off the back of the couch and spooning up behind him. Spencer kicks his jeans off so he's just in his boxers, and Ryan relaxes into the embrace, Spencer's hand low and centering on Ryan's stomach. Spencer breathes in and out and smells Ryan's hair, his sweat. He smells faintly like weed, but Spencer's pretty sure that was just the joint they smoked this morning.

"So," Spencer says eventually, once they're both feeling relatively normal again and Ryan's tucking his cold toes into the inside of Spencer's ankles to warm them up, because he's a selfish asshole who likes to steal body heat. "Thoughts?"

"Good," Ryan says, and hums a little. "My ass hurts. In the good way."

"I'm buying you a pillow for the plane ride," Spencer says, and Ryan snorts. 

"You could tie me up the next time we do that," Ryan says, thoughtfully, after another few minutes have passed. 

"Hands over your head?" Spencer says, shifting so his toes are under the throw pillows at the end of the couch. "Or behind your back?"

"Behind my back, maybe," Ryan says, the words slow and measured. "I think my shoulders would get really sore if they were over my head."

"Mmm," Spencer says, just listening. Ryan likes to work these things out on his own, and eventually he'll come to a conclusion. Then Spencer will either yea or nay it, depending on whether it's something he likes, or is comfortable doing, or something he's concerned might cause injury. Ryan eventually comes to a decision, and Spencer nods and agrees and then says, "Hey, so, that thing we talked about, I think I'm okay with it."

"Yeah?" Ryan says, and it sounds like he's discussing a movie or the weather, but Spencer can hear the undercurrent of excitement in his the voice.

"Yeah," Spencer says. "We'll talk about it when you're in L.A., okay? I'm kind of done for tonight." 

"Yeah, okay, I think Mythbusters is on," Ryan says, and reaches for the remote on the table.

Spencer holds on to him so he won't fall off the couch and dozes for a while, listening to Ryan's strange, awkward laugh, the way it rumbles in his chest when he's particularly amused. Eventually he wakes up to Ryan tugging on his hand, padding naked to the bedroom. Spencer stumbles behind him and falls into bed. Ryan curls up over him, around him, and Spencer tucks his face into Ryan's shoulder and stops thinking.

\--

"Yeah, no," Spencer's saying into the phone, one hand in the fridge trying to reach that one stupid beer all the way in the back of the left-hand drawer. "Like I said, I'm okay with it, I just wanted you to--" He's trying to keep his sentences vague, because Brendon is watching TV in the living room. It's just been a long day at the studio, and Spencer really wants a cold one. Maybe it will make this conversation go a little easier. Spencer has never pretended to be perfect.

"What did you want to know?" Ryan says, and there's an odd clinking noise at the other end of the line, like the sound of a plate cracking. Spencer pulls the phone away from his ear for a minute and stares.

"Are you doing the dishes?" Spencer says.

"Yeah," Ryan says. "I'm kind of like. I'm trying not to drop the phone in the sink. It's hard."

"Oh my god, you're going to electrocute yourself," Spencer mutters as he twists the cap off his beer.  He looks at the cap consideringly and then sends it flying into the living room with his thumb and middle finger. He misses Brendon by a mile, but you wouldn't know it from the injured noises coming through the doorway. You'd think he'd killed Brendon's firstborn, or something. 

"I can stop," Ryan says eventually, after a long pause during which Spencer tells Brendon to suck it up and deal as Brendon insults Spencer's parentage.

"Stop what?" Spencer says, tuning back in. "Wait, what?"

"The dishes," Ryan says. "Maybe I should do them when I'm not on the phone."

"The boy genius, he returns," Spencer says, shutting the door to his room, beer still in hand. He takes a long swig and then sets the bottle on the edge of his dresser. "We can do _this_ later, you know. If you're busy."

"No, it's okay," Ryan says, and it sounds like he's getting something out of the fridge, too. "God, it's fucking hot in L.A."

"Yeah," Spencer says, and they bullshit about the weather for a while, long enough that Spencer's thinking it doesn't even matter if he's drinking a beer because they're obviously not going to talk about it right now. But then Ryan does that thing that he does sometimes, where he just _switches_ and he's suddenly so very, very on track and focused.

"So, yeah, anyway, I was thinking, I really just want you to fuck me and I'll act like I don't want it, and I want it to be a surprise," Ryan says, and Spencer spits out his drink. 

"Surprise?" Spencer says, weakly, because there's a few parts of that sentence he's stuck on, and that one seems the easiest to handle. 

"I don't want to like, sit down and talk about it, or have you ask me if I'm ready," Ryan muses. "That's not the point, you know? I want you to just, yeah. I don't want to know when. I want it to feel real."

Spencer swallows and nods and doesn't think about the tight feeling in his chest, the one that doesn't want Ryan to know when it's coming, either.

"What if we talked about it on Friday?" Spencer says. "After I fly in. And then, like, sometime I can just--yeah. But that way it's--" _It's not **too** real for me_, Spencer wants to say. It's like he needs to see Ryan's face when he tells him he wants this, not just hear it from a disembodied voice over the telephone. 

Never mind that he was there when Ryan asked the first time. Spencer's aware of how thin a line they're treading, and it's exciting and scary all at once. He's also based everything on the fact that Ryan's never been so out of it that he can't give his consent; he's always asked for everything Spencer's given him. The talking and the asking and begging make Spencer feel safe, make him feel like he can do these things and not have it be _wrong._

"Okay," Ryan says easily. "Did you want to do something else on Friday night, or--"

"Maybe not," Spencer says. They'd planned something tentative, but Spencer's not sure he'll be able to focus, and that's dangerous. "I think I'll be too distracted."

"Hey, we could go out," Ryan says, his voice warming up with excitement. "There's this awesome Shabu Shabu place, like, Asian hot pots, you know? Z showed me where it is, and it's great, really..."

Spencer tunes Ryan out a bit, nodding and makes casual hmm-ing noises at the appropriate times. It's probably not a bad idea to go out on Friday, honestly. They can talk about it beforehand and then relax, and maybe Spencer will be able to calm his brain down to the point where he can do this. 

He's interrupted by Brendon sticking his head through the doorway, not bothering to knock, as usual. "Italian? Yes? No? Thoughts?" Brendon says, leaning up against the doorway. Spencer nods and holds up his hand in the universal sign for "5 more minutes." Brendon rolls his eyes and waits while Spencer steers Ryan back to the issue of flights and cars and things, and when he hangs up Brendon's grinning at him. 

"You're so adorable with him," Brendon says, cooing, and Spencer chucks the nearest dirty sock at his head and tells him to order his own damn Italian. 

\--

Spencer's itchy and restless during his flight. He sticks to water and tries to read the in-flight magazines, but he ends up staring at an article on makeup tips thinking about whether or not Ryan's going to struggle, how far he's going to take it. Is he going to cry? Spencer has no idea. There's a part of him deep inside that wakes up at that, that reminds him how pretty Ryan looks with tears at the corners of his eyes, after Spencer's pushed him as far as he can go. Spencer shifts uncomfortably in his seat and tries not to look like a total creep. He is so not going to be that dude who's sitting in first-class with a hard-on. 

Ryan picks him up in the airport in black ray-bans and skinny trousers and a pork-pie hat. Spencer almost asks him if he's trying to go incognito until he remembers that Ryan tends to step it up when he's in L.A.  There's something about the casual paparazzi that appeals to his sense of the stage, or maybe he just likes fucking with people. Spencer's never been quite able to figure it out.

He stares at Ryan's wrist tattoos while Ryan drives and thinks about his thumbs on Ryan's pulse points, if he could risk digging his thumbnail into the skin.  He distantly realizes his skin feels a little buzzy. Spencer stretches his shoulders out and rolls down the window, tuning back in to whatever Ryan's rambling on about.

"So I sent you track three, right? Yeah, yeah you heard it, okay, so why the hell doesn't Jon want drums on that one? It needs drums. The bass line is good, okay, but it's not a, a substitute."

Spencer thinks about it for a second. "Yeah, no," he agrees. "But I always want drums," he says as an afterthought. "You know."

"Yeah," Ryan says, and flicks on his turn signal for the exit.

They get home and unpack and talk and go out, and later, much later, Spencer fucks Ryan carefully in Ryan's bed, the sheets bunched up around them. He presses his spread hand to Ryan's stomach, pulling him in, and Ryan moans when the new angle makes Spencer slip in deeper. Spencer kisses the back of his neck and moves gently, slowly, the kind of sex they almost never have.

Afterwards Spencer reaches out for Ryan, sliding his hand down his stomach and wrapping it around his dick, but Ryan shakes his head. He moves Spencer's hand away, tucking himself back into his underwear and pressing his legs together. Ryan likes to wait, likes to keep the edge up before they play. Even though this time it's Ryan's decision and not Spencer's, Spencer feels that familiar surge of pride. Eventually, Ryan shifts so he's lying on his back, and Spencer gets up for a drink of water, bringing the glass back and setting it on the bedside. 

"Love you," Ryan murmurs as he's falling asleep, and Spencer squeezes his hand. A car passes by outside, and Spencer watches the play of lights through the curtains, sweeping through the room, illuminating Ryan's features for a brief second. He looks happy, and Spencer feels something settle into place, like the clicking of a lock, like an open door.

\--

Ryan's gone when he wakes up, and Spencer's confused for a minute before he hears rattling in the kitchen, morning noises of coffee and tea and toast. He yawns and pads out into the hallway, scratching his stomach, but when he goes to kiss Ryan good morning, Ryan turns away. Spencer's confused, concerned, until he sees the way Ryan's watching him out of the corner of his eye and he remembers oh, oh. 

It's Saturday. 

"What, I don't get a kiss good morning?" Spencer says, deceptively easy, but he lets a little bit of steel creep into his voice.

"No," Ryan says, and it's a good act, solid enough that Spencer would be worried if he didn't know what day it was. He moves in, crowding Ryan against the counter, and Ryan says "Don't," and flicks his eyes up at Spencer, testing. 

"Don't what?" Spencer says, tilting his head, and Ryan says "C'mon, stop," and shifts away, sliding out from between Spencer and the counter. He swings his hips a little as he walks, and Spencer thinks _prey_. He lets Ryan go, because later, oh, later.

\--

Spencer has no idea what this must look like to other people, and somewhere in the back of his mind he cares, but most of him doesn't. They've been out running errands, and it feels like a game, almost. Spencer keeps crowding into Ryan, pushing into his space, keeping a hand on his back whenever he gets close. Ryan's forgotten a few times and leaned into it, but then he's stiffened, moving away. It just makes Spencer want him more, want to push until Ryan gives in. 

"C'mon, you know you want it," Spencer whispers into Ryan's ear when they're at the supermarket. He's got one hand on Ryan's hip, and Ryan's trapped in between Spencer's body and the shopping cart. Spencer can hear his breathing speed up, even as he says, "Stop it," in a bored voice, like choosing a cereal is infinitely more important. 

"You're such a slut," Spencer says softly, before he really thinks it through. Ryan stiffens further, biting his lip. He's blushing, and Spencer wants to bite and scratch, feel the heated skin on Ryan's collarbone under his tongue. "You'd let me do anything I wanted, wouldn't you, here where everyone could see--"

"Spencer," Ryan says, a little desperately. He swallows hard, shakes himself a little, and Spencer watches as Ryan comes back from wherever he was. He pushes Spencer away roughly and leans down to grab a box of cereal from the bottom shelf.

Spencer grabs his wrist before Ryan can drop the box into the cart, circling his fingers around the delicate bones. "You'd love it," Spencer says, and Ryan turns and walks away, leaving Spencer with the cart. He's walking a little stiffly, and Spencer can tell he's hard. 

When they get everything out to the car, Spencer reaches out and snatches the keys out of Ryan's hand. He tells Ryan to sit in the front seat, and Spencer unloads everything himself and then drives them home. He keeps one hand on Ryan's thigh the whole time he's driving even though Ryan keeps trying to shift away. Spencer has to dig his nails in to keep him in place. Ryan's still hard.

Spencer reaches out and cups him in his hand when they're at a stop light. He says, "See, I told you. You want it so bad," and Ryan presses his face into the window, his cheeks flushed. He tries to squirm away, and Spencer strokes him again before the light turns green. 

When he pulls his hand away, Ryan presses his legs together and looks down at his feet, and Spencer has to tamp down a surge of need. He wants to pull the car over and make Ryan look at him. He wants to tell Ryan how pretty he looks and how bad Spencer knows he wants it. It's overwhelming, almost, and Spencer keeps his eyes on the road and forces himself to breath slowly and evenly, counting exhalations in his head.

Ryan practically races out of the car when Spencer pulls in, and Spencer follows slowly, bringing in the groceries. It feels as though everything has emptied out into this moment; his head feels clear and calm. Spencer's never experienced subspace, but he suspects this is what it feels like; only when Spencer gets like this it's not about receiving, it's about taking. He wonders how long it would take Ryan to snap if Spencer just followed him around, but that seems unnecessary when he can just find Ryan and shove him up against a wall.

He hears the shower kick on when he's in the kitchen putting the groceries away, and Spencer briefly considers following Ryan in there. But then his actual thinky brain _pings_ and Spencer quickly scraps the idea. Showers are slippery, and if Ryan wants to struggle, Spencer might not be able to catch him in time. 

So that's fine, then. Spencer can wait.

\--

Spencer makes dinner. Part of him knows he's giving Ryan time, space, letting him figure out how he wants this to go. 

Mostly, though, Spencer's just--calm. Waiting. Everything seems clear and focused, and making dinner is actually enjoyable. He measures everything carefully, precisely, and every movement seems effortless. Somewhere in the back of Spencer's mind he's a little unnerved by it, but when the thoughts try to crowd into his head, Spencer just pushes them down and away. That's all for later. He's under no illusions that they won't need to talk about this because it's not the kind of scene where a simple "yes, that was good," or "no, I wasn't so down with X" will work. 

He can hear Ryan moving around upstairs, the faint sounds of his acoustic guitar. Spencer cuts up the salad and runs the dishwasher, and when that's done, he sets the table. He thinks about going upstairs and telling Ryan the food's ready, but there's a sharp hum of anticipation under Spencer's skin that he'd like to keep for as long as possible. He texts Ryan instead, a simple _dinner_, because he knows Ryan can't go more than twenty minutes without checking his phone. 

Ryan comes downstairs barefoot, in a tight V-neck and a pair of ancient jeans that Spencer remembers from high school. His hair is soft and curling around his ears, and Spencer knows it's deliberate, the same way Ryan's wrists are conspicuously bare. He looks pretty and young, the epitome of everything Spencer's craving, and oh, he is going to pay for this later. 

"Dressing up for dinner?" Spencer says, keeping his tone conspicuously light.

"No," Ryan says, cutting his eyes away and looking at Spencer from under his eyelashes. It's totally manipulative. It works anyway. "I've had these jeans forever. You know that."

Spencer takes a moment to appreciate the long line of Ryan's spine, the dip at the base, the way his old, threadbare jeans hug his barely-there curves.

"I think you just want to get fucked," Spencer says easily. "Lasagna's in the oven." It's a cheap trick, and he knows it, but the way Ryan's eyes widen and his cheeks flush is worth it. 

"I'm not that kind of boy," Ryan says calmly, once he's regained his equilibrium. A tiny part of Spencer is _cracking up_ because he would never have believed Ryan could say that with a straight face, but most of him just wants to show Ryan how wrong he is. 

"I think you are," Spencer says, and when he brushes past Ryan to open the refrigerator, he lets one hand rest at the base of Ryan's spine, his fingers barely inching below Ryan's belt. Ryan's skin is soft and warm, and fuck, Spencer wants him so badly he's not sure he's going to be able to make it through dinner.

He grabs two bottles of water out of the fridge, and when he stands back up he places them on the counter, caging Ryan's body in with his arms. Ryan ducks his head, and Spencer can't stop himself from nosing at the back of his neck. He breathes in Ryan's smell and says quietly, "I think you're the kind of boy who wants it so bad you can't even make it through dinner. I think you're going to be squirming the whole time, thinking about how good it's going to feel when I fuck you--"

"Spencer, stop," Ryan says, and pulls away, ducking under Spencer's arms. He's breathing a little heavily, and the front of his jeans looks uncomfortably tight. "I told you. I've never done that."

Spencer can feel his eyebrows raising, and he looks away for a minute, just to compose himself. It's not how he was expecting Ryan to play this. He can work with it--oh, yes, Spencer can work with that--but Spencer kind of needs a moment to switch gears. 

It's one thing for Ryan to play hard-to-get. It's another thing entirely for him to play the virgin. 

(They've done that before, though, in more ways than one. Spencer's lost count of the things they've tried together for the first time. Spencer knows he wasn't the first person to fuck Ryan, but Ryan's told him before, in a quiet, measured voice, that he was the first one to do it _right_.)

Spencer just--needs a moment, and that's when Ryan says, "If I let you do that, would it hurt?"

Spencer sucks in a breath. Ryan's carefully spooning salad onto his plate, and while his voice has a slight tremor to it, he's otherwise unaffected. 

"Would you want it to hurt?" Spencer asks softly.

"No," Ryan says, and darts his eyes away. He licks his lips. "Why would I want that?"

"I think," Spencer says, and wraps his fingers around Ryan's wrist where he's holding the serving spoon. "I think you don't know what you want. But I do know you want it. Look at you, you're already hard. I haven't even done anything to you yet."

"Spencer, you're scaring me," Ryan says.

"I think you like being scared," Spencer says, tightening his grip on Ryan's wrist. "You want it. You want it so fucking bad your hands are shaking--"

"No," Ryan says, and pulls his hand away. "Listen, I'm really hungry. Let's just sit and eat, okay?"

"Sure," Spencer says, dropping his hand. "If that's what you _want_."

"It is," Ryan says, and he picks up both water bottles and takes them to the table. Spencer serves himself and sits down across from Ryan, at the tiny table that's pushed into a corner of the kitchen. It's small enough that he can curl his foot around Ryan's ankle, keeping him in place. Ryan's distracted the whole way through dinner, picking at his food and shifting uncomfortably on his chair. His hands really are shaking, a tiny bit. Towards the end Spencer's considering checking in, just in case, and then Ryan turns his head away from the window and looks straight at Spencer for the first time in half an hour. 

Spencer's struck by the sheer _want_ in Ryan's eyes, want and acquiescence, like Ryan's begging for Spencer to tear him open from the inside. Ryan cuts his eyes away, and when he looks back he smiles, just once, tiny and mischievous. Spencer takes a long gulp of water. His throat is dry.

Ryan cleans up, after, taking Spencer's plate as well as his own. Spencer pushes down the urge to say, _good boy_.

\--

Spencer waits until he can't wait any longer, and then he shoves Ryan up against the wall in the living room. Ryan's eyes are wide and his lips are wet, red, and there is only so much of this that Spencer can take. He's put up with two hours of Ryan slinking around him, lazing on the couch, stretching long and luxurious where Spencer could see and not touch. Ryan's body stiffens against the impact, and his head hits the wall. Spencer can feel the way it makes Ryan straighten his spine under Spencer's hands.

"I told you," Ryan says, breathless. "I told you, I don't want to--"

"I don't really care," Spencer whispers, and kisses him, hard. Ryan opens up easily under his mouth, shudders when Spencer bites down hard on his lower lip, and just as Spencer's starting to think this is it, that Ryan's getting ready to give in, Ryan pulls away. 

"Please don't," Ryan says, and the words are completely at odds with how he looks, strung out and wanton, caged against the wall by Spencer's body. "I'm scared. You're going to hurt me."

"You'll like it," Spencer murmurs, and noses along the thin skin at the side of Ryan's neck, just under his ear. "You'll see, I promise, I'm going to spread you open so good--"

Ryan's mouth opens, soundless, catching on a word that Spencer would bet is probably _fuck_, unvoiced. "I don't want," Ryan says unevenly, and puts his hands on Spencer's hips, tries futilely to push him away. "You're going to have to make me. I'll fight back, I will--"

"I want you to fight back," Spencer whispers, and bites down, tasting Ryan's skin, salt and sweat and the sweet tinge of fear. "It's more fun that way."

He pushes Ryan's hips farther into the wall, crowding him with his body. Ryan's hard against his thigh, and Spencer pushes his advantage, shifting his knee so he can press his thigh up against Ryan's cock. "You're going to look so pretty for me," Spencer murmurs, and Ryan's throat works as he swallows.

Spencer kisses him again, hard and furious, kisses him until Ryan's breathlessly grinding into his thigh. Spencer tightens his hands on Ryan's hips, feeling the thin skin under his fingertips, and tries to remind himself not to bruise. Fuck, he wants. He always wants Ryan, wants what Ryan's willing to give him, but Spencer feels dangerously close to being out of control, and they still have so far to go. 

Spencer pulls back, sinks his teeth into Ryan's lip one more time and says, "Go upstairs and get ready."

"No," Ryan says, and shakes his head. His hair's a mess from Spencer pulling at it, from Ryan himself throwing his head back against the wall and tangling it. "I told you, I'm not like that. I won't do what you want, that's dirty, I--"

"Oh?" Spencer says, and uses his body to flip Ryan around. Ryan throws his arms out to catch himself and Spencer covers both hands with his own where they're spread against the wall. Ryan's panting, legs unconsciously spread, and Spencer leans in between them, linking their fingers together and lazily nipping at the back of Ryan's neck.

"What were you saying about it being dirty?" Spencer whispers, and Ryan twitches a little, like he's trying not to press back against Spencer. "Messy, maybe. Not dirty. God, you'll be so slick afterwards, such a mess, and then I'm going to pull out and come all over your--" 

Ryan interrupts him with a high, tremulous whine. It sounds like it's being torn out of his chest, like he wasn't able to control the sound, and Spencer tugs Ryan's arms down from the wall and behind his back, appreciating the way Ryan automatically stands up straight, curving his back into the restraint. He looks good like this, always has; Ryan's so lean and angular that occasionally, in some types of restraint, the lines of his body seem disturbingly sharp. Pulled like this, the muscles in his upper arms soften slightly. His shoulders spread back, emphasizing the delicate lines of his collarbone. It's one of Spencer's favorite ways to restrain Ryan.

Right now, though, Spencer just wants to hold Ryan down and fuck him until he gives in. 

"Walk," Spencer says softly. "Forward. Upstairs."

"Make me," Ryan says, and Spencer digs his fingernails into the thin skin of Ryan's wrists, pressing up against him from behind, forcing his center of gravity forward until Ryan has no choice between moving and falling on his face. 

Ryan struggles as they go up the stairs -- not much, but enough to keep Spencer's interest. Some part of him knows that Ryan's faking; he's stronger than he looks, and if he really wanted to get out, he could. Hell, if he really wanted to get out, he could knee Spencer in the balls.

At one point he kicks out and tries to trip Spencer, and Spencer has to clamp down on the sudden urge to laugh. It's disturbingly similar to when they were teenagers; Spencer has so many memories of trying to tackle Ryan on the stairs that they've all bled into one, a sense-memory of laughter and insults and skinned knees. This is nothing like that, and yet Ryan's tiny, fleeting smile tells Spencer he knows exactly what Spencer's thinking about, that he's also trying not to laugh. It's a struggle to keep a straight face. 

Spencer pushes him up against the wall instead. 

"You're not helping," Spencer says. He shifts Ryan's wrists to one hand and drags one thumbnail down the small of Ryan's back. "Careful, you might make me think you don't want this."

"I don't," Ryan says, but the words are slightly strangled, as though he's still trying not to laugh. 

"Do I need to make you focus?" Spencer says, and presses the pad of his thumb in right above Ryan's tailbone, a point of centering pressure. 

"Probably," Ryan says flippantly, and Spencer jams a knee in between Ryan's legs, forcing him to spread against the wall. He's absolutely trapped; Spencer has him at an angle, with no hands free and no leverage. His chest rises and falls.

"See, I have this thing," Spencer says conversationally. "Called patience. And you're kind of wearing it thin at the moment. Because I've been waiting all day to fuck you, and you're not making it easy."

"Who says," Ryan replies, and he has to cut off in the middle because Spencer's dragging the fingernails off his right hand across Ryan's stomach. His voice, when he starts talking again, is breathy. "Who says I wanted to make it easy." 

"I think you did," Spencer says. "All of this _no, no, be gentle, it's my first time_ bullshit, and what you really want is someone to--"

"No," Ryan says. "No, I'm not lying about that, I--"

"Hmmm," Spencer says, and steps back. Ryan almost stumbles backwards, and he barely catches himself in time. "We'll just have to find out, won't we?"

\--

"See, I told you you'd like it," Spencer says, and Ryan moans. Spencer has him tied up to the headboard, on his knees, spread wide open for Spencer to see. Ryan struggles a little, and Spencer smacks him hard on the ass, a solid blow that's going to leave a mark later. 

"Stop," Ryan moans, and it's long, drawn out, in exactly same voice he always uses when he tells Spencer he wants more. Spencer smiles a little and presses right up against Ryan's prostate, just to see him jerk. He's so pretty like this, panting and trying to get away. It had taken everything Spencer had not to just tie him up and look at him for a while, but Ryan's panting and shoving his ass back into Spencer's finger, even as he moans out pleas for Spencer to stop. 

"You love it," Spencer says. He drizzles more lube on his fingers, comes back with two and shoves them in a little roughly. "God, you're such a slut for this." 

"Please," Ryan says, and it's not even clear anymore if he's begging for Spencer to stop or continue. "You're going to hurt me, I--"

"Oh?" Spencer says, and leans down to lick over Ryan's hole. Ryan whimpers, and Spencer spreads him open wider, feathering his tongue lightly over his fingers. He can feel the way Ryan's clenching down on his fingers, his cock hanging heavy and untouched between his legs. Ryan's so hard it looks almost painful. He's dripping on the bedsheets. "Am I hurting you now?"

"Yessss," Ryan moans, and shoves his ass back harder into Spencer's hand. "Fuck, Spencer,"

"You look so pretty like this," Spencer says. "You can scream, you know. No one's going to hear you." 

"Fuck," Ryan grits out. Spencer pulls his fingers out with a slick sound, drizzling more lube on them so he can add a third. He's not taking any chances; bruises are one thing, but this is another. He's not planning on actually hurting Ryan like that, because he's not sure he can. He can talk, can tell Ryan he's filthy and beautiful and coax him into more, but Spencer knows somewhere deep inside that's as far as he's willing to go. 

Spencer pushes three fingers in and says softly, "I wonder how much you could take like this. I know you can take my cock, but what if I stretched you wide open, my whole hand?"

"No," Ryan whimpers, and leans back as far as he can into Spencer's thrusts. He's loose now, taking all of Spencer's fingers easily. "No, please don't, please don't--"

"I think I want to fuck you right now," Spencer says. "But I could make you take my hand. You're all tied up, no place to go, and I could just sit here and watch you fall apart--" Ryan jerks under his hands and Spencer bites down, hard, on the curve of Ryan's ass. "If I did that, do you think you'd scream for me?" 

"Yes," Ryan gasps out, his voice raw, and Spencer has to suck in a breath, close his eyes, and focus. He pulls his fingers out slowly and shucks the rest of his clothes, pulling a condom out of the front pocket of his jeans. He's not actually sure how long this is going to last; Ryan's really worked up, and Spencer isn't much better. He thinks about the way Ryan's going to feel around him as he rolls the condom on, and he has to stop for a moment and hold the base of his dick tight. 

It almost feels like the first time, which is kind of fucked up. Ryan's so tight around him when Spencer pushes in that a loud groan rips its way out of his chest, unexpected. "Fuck," Spencer pants out. "God, Ryan, you feel so good, you're so tight--" Spencer sets up a punishing rhythm, unable to hold back. He fucks Ryan hard enough to bruise, hard enough that Ryan's lower back is bowing under the force of his thrusts. Ryan tucks his head down, lengthening his spine, and Spencer forces himself to hold off, just for a second. He slows down so he can hold Ryan open, watch the slick slide of his cock into Ryan's ass. 

Ryan's _loud_. Spencer realizes distantly that this is the first time in a while--not counting last night--where he hasn't told Ryan he has to be quiet. Ryan's making little noises and grunts on each thrust, little "uhn, uhn, uhn" noises that are driving Spencer crazy. 

"Fuck, you love this," Spencer says, his filters almost totally gone. "Yeah," Ryan pants out. "I mean no, fuck, I don't, I--"

"Liar," Spencer says. He's still in control of himself, but just barely. He can feel the muscles in his legs tightening on each thrust. He sinks in deep and grinds his hips in a slow, dirty circle, and then he reaches down and pulls on the end of the rope. He'd made Ryan close his eyes while he was tying him up, pressing his face carefully into the pillow. His wrists are bound together securely, but Spencer had tied a loose slip-knot on the rope that's securing Ryan to the headboard, so all he has to do is tug hard and it will come free. Ryan jerks a little in surprise at the sudden change in leverage, sliding farther down onto his elbows as the rope gives way. 

Spencer holds onto Ryan's hips and guides him backwards, pulling so that when he's done, he's sitting upright and Ryan's seated on his dick, deeper than before. Ryan tips his head back onto Spencer's shoulder, his wrists held loosely in his lap. He's not even trying to get away, so far gone he can't keep up the charade.

Spencer noses at the back of his neck, biting roughly at the hinge of Ryan's jaw when Ryan shifts a little on his dick. "Needed a way to shut you up," Spencer says breathlessly, and sticks the fingers of his clean hand in Ryan's mouth.

Ryan moans, and Spencer can feel the pad of Ryan's tongue scraping over his fingers, sucking on them, even using his teeth a little to hold them in place when Spencer starts fucking him again in earnest. It's a complicated angle; it requires all the strength in Spencer's thighs to fuck up and into Ryan, because he's just dead weight. It's worth it, though, because gravity's helping him out, and every time Ryan slides back down onto his cock, Spencer can hear himself let out a grunt. God, it's so fucking deep like this, so, so good. 

Spencer wants more, though. Spencer wants Ryan to come on his cock, wants to fuck him when he's boneless and still shaking. He pulls his fingers out of Ryan's mouth and Ryan whines a little, chasing them. He throws his head back as Spencer slides his wet hand down his stomach, fingers curved, scratching a trail down to Ryan's dick. 

It doesn't take much--half a dozen careful strokes, a few whispered words about how much Ryan likes this, _see, I told you Ryan, you're a fucking slut, you love it_\--and Ryan's coming all over Spencer's hand, a hot wet rush, dripping down Ryan's thighs. 

Spencer bends him forward when he's still shaking, fucking him hard, loving the way it makes Ryan tense up around his dick. He's so close, just there, almost, almost--and then Ryan cries out _please_, begging Spencer to come inside him and that's it, it's enough, it's more than enough. Spencer feels his toes curl when he comes, his muscles locking and tensing, everything in him pulled up tight for one perfect, endless moment until it all comes crashing down. 

Spencer gives himself the space of five breaths. His vision is sparkly around the edges. Endorphins are still making his hands shake when he reaches up and works with unsteady fingers on the knots holding Ryan's wrists together. 

Ryan tips forward when his hands are pulled free, like he was barely holding himself up. He looks shaky, wrecked, his pupils wide. Spencer can feel his blood pounding through his veins, and he concentrates on that, the steady beat of his heart and Ryan's heart when he tugs Ryan on top of him, tucking his face into Ryan's shoulder. Ryan nuzzles in a little. His movements are jerky, graceless. 

Spencer rubs at the small of his back, at his wrists, and waits. Now that it's over, now that the fog is clearing, there's so much he wants to say that he can't say it. It's the most intense scene Spencer's ever done and the _lack_ of control--the realization of just how out of it he was, at the end--is making his stomach twist up. 

Spencer closes his eyes. He feels Ryan's heartbeat, thumping quietly in tandem to his own. Outside, there's a dog barking, and the sound of a far-away car alarm. 

"Spence," Ryan says, softly, and when he looks up there's a wetness around his eyes. Spencer feels his heart constrict, the sick feeling in his stomach getting worse. "Shit, shit," Spencer says, and his voice is shaky. "Ryan, fuck, what, was it too much, what did I do, what--"

"You didn't," Ryan says, and wipes messily at his face. He pulls his hand away and stares at the wetness on his fingertips, like he can't believe it's there. "I don't know why I'm--seriously, it was fine the whole way through. I would have stopped you if it wasn't. You know I would have."

"Then why are you crying," Spencer whispers. "If you're crying I fucked it up."

"I don't know," Ryan says quietly, matter-of-fact. "It was just--a lot. But I'm not--you gave me what I asked for, Spencer."

"I don't think I can do that again," Spencer says honestly. He wipes at Ryan's face, at the smears left by the smattering of tears on his cheeks. "I could have hurt you, I said so much shit to you--"

"You said the things I asked you to," Ryan says. "You don't have anything to be sorry for."

Spencer nods and lets his head fall back against the pillow. "I don't know what to do for you right now," Spencer says after a few beats. "I'm supposed to be taking care of you, and I just. Fuck, my head is a mess."

"Just stay," Ryan says, curling his body even further into Spencer's space, pressing his angles to Spencer's edges. They're both tired and sore, sticky with sweat. The bedsheets are disgusting, but Spencer can't bring himself to care. "Don't do anything. Just stay here with me. That's what I want."

"You know I didn't mean it," Spencer says softly. "Any of those things I said."

"I know you didn't mean most of them," Ryan says, and laughs a little, a rough, unformed noise. "I am kind of a slut for you, though." 

"Don't--" Spencer says, and Ryan says, "Spencer, I'm kidding," in the same flat tone. "Or I'm not. But I'm okay with that."

"Yeah," Spencer says, and tucks his face further into Ryan's shoulder. He can smell Ryan's shampoo. The soft mass of Ryan's curls tickle his nose, and Spencer breathes him in and thinks _fuck, I love you so much_. It's almost painful in its intensity, a sharp, overwhelming sensation of need. It's both comforting and terrifying. Spencer should be used to it by now, but it always takes him by surprise. 

On top of him, Ryan's breaths are evening out into something slow and loose, gentle inhales that mark the start of his slide into unconsciousness. 

Spencer tightens his arms around Ryan's waist. He closes his eyes and holds on.

\--

Spencer wakes up to Ryan's strange, snuffling snore in his ear. The curtains block most of the early-morning light, but a few slivers of gold are determinedly slipping their way through the cracks and directly into Spencer's eye. Spencer shifts, rolls over, and tries to go back to sleep, but he ends up just lying there dozing, listening to the city waking up around them. Eventually, he becomes aware that the room is quieter than before; he feels the distinct sensation of someone looking at him and opens his eyes. Ryan's lying on his side, just watching. He looks half-asleep. 

"Hey," Spencer croaks out. "Morning."

"I can't cook," Ryan says after a pause.

"I--yes," Spencer says. "What?"

"I was going to--I was thinking I should try and make breakfast, but we both know I suck at it." Ryan says after another pause, longer than the first. "So we should go get pancakes."

"I like pancakes," Spencer says. "That would be cool."

"Mmm," Ryan says, and closes his eyes. Spencer's thinking about pointing out that going to get food requires actually making it out of bed, but his body is kind of stiff and sore, and he's not so hungry yet that eating is a necessity. He stretches and winces at the pull of muscles in his shoulders, the sharp burn between the shoulderblades. He'd made sure Ryan had water and Advil last night, but he'd forgotten to get some for himself. In retrospect, it was pretty dumb. Spencer's usually careful about that sort of thing. 

Thinking about the burn in his shoulders makes him think of last night, of all the reasons he's so sore. The unsettled feeling returns to the pit of his stomach. 

He gets up and gets dressed, stealing Ryan's crumpled pack of cigarettes and a lighter from the kitchen counter. Spencer normally only smokes socially; it's barely 9 on a Sunday morning, but it feels like the right thing to do. It's nice out when he steps onto Ryan's tiny back porch, the air just beginning to heat up under the Los Angeles sun. Spencer stands in a patch of sunlight and smokes until Ryan pads out behind him, yawning.

"Hey," Ryan says, and lights his own. He's got a mug in one hand, but when Spencer steals it to take a sip, he finds it's filled with cold water. 

"You know," Spencer says, "normal people just use a glass."

Ryan waves a hand, like his choice of glassware is the least of his worries. His hair is stuck in unruly clumps, one side tangled from the pillow. 

"Feels like we're seventeen again," Spencer says after a while. He can't remember the last time he's had a cigarette this early in the morning, unless he was still up from the night before. Ryan smiles a little, but keeps his secrets to himself, hiding the curve of his lips in the bottom of his mug. 

They go to a diner and wait twenty minutes for a table. The crowd is an odd mix of twentysomethings still in last night's clothes, older couples dressed for church, and families with small children who have obviously been up for hours. After they've been seated, Ryan starts talking about this book he read, something about an underground waterfall and a guy stuck in a room and a Japanese prostitute who isn't actually Japanese, but everyone thinks she is. Something like that. Spencer isn't paying a ton of attention, just letting Ryan's words wash over him and nodding when his input is required. It's strangely comforting, in that they've enacted these exact same roles in too many diners to count; the only difference is that Brendon isn't drumming his fingers on the table top next to them and Jon isn't cradling his coffee like it's a rare and precious liquid. 

Spencer's remembering the time Brendon ordered six pancakes and actually managed to eat them all and then threw up in the bus bathroom when Ryan stops, suddenly, in the middle of his thought and says, "Are you okay?"

"Hmm?" Spencer says. He sips his coffee. They're still waiting on their food. "Oh, yeah, no, I'm good."

"You like, aren't," Ryan says, with his characteristic habit of wrapping oddly incisive observations in imprecise language.

"I--" Spencer says, ready to open his mouth and deny it, and stops. He isn't really okay. Everything feels sort of dull, like all of his senses are slightly blunted against the intrusion of the outside world. It feels like he's walking through water, like he's carefully tip-toeing around something massive in the center of the room. 

"Maybe," Spencer says finally, unwilling to admit it, but know it's only going to get worse if he denies that it's there. 

Ryan looks at him for a little bit, brushes his hair out of his eyes and says, "We should go to the beach."

"You hate the beach," Spencer says. "You complain the whole time, and you get sand in your shoes and end up all sunburnt at the end of the day."

"I bought a hat," Ryan says. "And not like. Not a _beach_ beach. No tourists. I know a place."

Their food arrives with very little fanfare. Spencer realizes as the waiter sets it down that he's starving. He orders more coffee.

They split the bill and walk back to Ryan's place, ambling down the sidewalk. Ryan holds his hand, which he doesn't usually do in public. It feels nice. It's not that Ryan doesn't like holding hands, it's just that he usually forgets it's an option. His palm is warm and a little sweaty in Spencer's own. 

Spencer gathers up the necessary supplies and rummages through Ryan's overstuffed and under-organized closets until he finds what he needs. He shoves everything in one of those eco-friendly shopping bags and dumps it in the back seat of Ryan's tiny, sporty car. Ryan puts on some hot new band while they drive, something so painfully indie Spencer has to fight the urge to laugh. Normally he would tease Ryan about it, tell him his taste in music sucks, but right now he's not sure the words will come out right. He's feeling a little spiky around the edges. 

The beach is really nothing more than an inlet, a rocky crevice protected against the sun and the wind by uneven clumps of weathered limestone. When Spencer grabs the bag out of the backseat, Ryan stares at it like he's never seen it before. 

"What's in there?" he asks.

"Towels," Spencer says. "Water. Sunscreen."

"Oh," Ryan says. "Oh, awesome." He looks pleased. Spencer rolls his eyes fondly. 

The path down to the beach is rocky, strewn with pebbles and clumps of tall grass. When they finally reach the bottom, the sand is damp from the spray. Spencer pulls out a towel and folds it up to sit on. Ryan pulls out the other one, taking off his shoes and balling up his socks inside. He's wearing a straw hat and huge sunglasses. His hair is still an ungodly mess. 

"It's not just you," Ryan says eventually, to the tune of the waves crashing in and out, a heartbeat, a rhythm that links the sea and the sky. 

"Yeah?" Spencer says, and turns to face him. Ryan's staring out at the ocean, an unreadable expression on his face. 

"You didn't hurt me," Ryan says, quiet and sure. "Stop beating yourself up over it, because I know you, and that's what you're doing right now. We're okay."

"Thanks, Buddha," Spencer says. "I'll be sure to keep that in mind."

"I just didn't want you think you were the only one," Ryan says. "That shit will mess with your head."

"It's already messing with my head," Spencer says, and frowns. He hadn't meant to be that honest. He'd been enjoying not talking about it, but the words are coming unexpectedly easily. "I just--Fuck, Ryan. I could have hurt you. I _wanted_ to hurt you. I didn't care about what you wanted, at the end, and that's scaring the shit out of me." 

"I don't want to do it again," Ryan says. "If that's what you're worried about. It was good. I mean, it was like I wanted it to be, it was just--"

"Intense," Spencer says. "Yeah. Kind of."

"It's not even that," Ryan says, and digs in his pocket for his cigarettes. The wind is picking up, and Spencer cups his hands around the lighter to shield the flame. "I just--once was enough, you know?"

Spencer nods. He gets it, kind of. So much of what they do with one another is about pushing boundaries, about seeing where the edges lie. This was just another edge Ryan needed to feel out, and it makes Spencer feel a little better to know he's found the place where he can't go any farther. 

"Could we maybe take a break for a while?" Spencer says. "Not like. Not from us. Just from the stuff, you know. Until I'm not so--" _confused_, Spencer thinks. He wants to explain that he's not confused about Ryan, or about him and Ryan, just himself. He needs to let everything sit for a while before he's ready to push it further. 

"We can have phone sex," Ryan says. He smirks a little around his cigarette.

"We're not having phone sex," Spencer says. "You'll get distracted in the middle and start talking about like, the adorable dog you saw that morning."

"Some people like that," Ryan says, totally deadpan. "You never know. Widen your horizons a little."

"You--" Spencer says, and then bursts out laughing. "No. No way."

"Coward," Ryan says, but he's smiling.

\--

"Whose dog is that?" Brendon says, peering at Spencer's phone. "Why is Ryan sending you pictures of dogs?"

"Uh," Spencer says. He makes a grab for the phone, but Brendon's small and too quick. "No reason."

"Oh my god," Brendon says. "Shit. Is that a hat? Ask him where he got it. We need one of those for Bogart."

"It's not his dog," Spencer says, giving up the chase. "I don't know whose dog it is. Maybe he's accosting random dogs on the street. I don't know."

"Tell him to ask where they got the hat next time," Brendon says, handing him his phone back now that Spencer's no longer trying to get it. 

It's a picture of a beagle in a striped sun-hat, panting into the camera. The caption on the picture says, _Wishing you were here. The weather's fine._


End file.
